


Three Little Words

by dcjuris



Series: Being Human [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Human Castiel, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcjuris/pseuds/dcjuris
Summary: Sometimes, all it takes is three little words.A small study in how Sam and Dean experience and deal with PTSD. (These works are not in any order at all, other than the way they come to me.)





	1. Sam

If you ask Sam, Hollywood knows jack shit about PTSD and panic attacks. Television shows and movies always portray these larger than life triggers, dramatic reactions, and heroic resolutions. In reality—at least Sam's reality—the triggers are small, the reactions paralyzing to the point of going unnoticed, and there's no heroic resolution.

This time, it's the scent of lilacs that sets him off. Ruby smelled like lilacs. He knows to avoid them, but he didn’t even _see_ the fucking things. Now, he's standing here frozen in place at the farmers' market, eyes burning with tears he's fighting back, panicked lungs trying to draw in air, with a nose full of stupid purple bullshit. It's fucking 3:45 in the afternoon on a goddam Tuesday, and everything is crashing down around him. Every noise is magnified, like needles in his ears. He'd scream if he could make his mouth work.

Suddenly, calloused fingers slide into his left hand and press hard against his palm. Dean. He'd know that grip anywhere.

Dean tugs and Sam goes, lets his brother lead him away from the throng of people. They stop abruptly and Dean pushes him back against something solid.

"Sam."

He knows it's more than his name. It's a command. He forces his eyes open. They're at the Impala.

"I got you." Dean slides his free hand up and grips the back of Sam's neck. "I got you."

Sam manages a nod. He stares down into his brother's eyes as Dean increases the pressure on his palm. The scar stopped hurting a million years ago, but the gesture still works, still grounds him in reality. In Dean.

"I got you."

He focuses on Dean, on the steady, even rise and fall of Dean's chest, the heat of Dean's touch on his skin. The knot in his own chest eases, his guts start to unpretzel.

"You need to go?"

"No." He'll be damned if fucking flowers send him running back to the Bunker with his tail between his legs. He reaches out and lays his hand over Dean's heart. "Stay close."

"Always, baby boy."

 


	2. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, all it takes is three little words.
> 
> A small study in how Sam and Dean experience and deal with PTSD. (These works are not in any order at all, other than the way they come to me.)

If you told Dean four years ago—hell, even four _months_ ago—that he'd be standing in Leslie Boughton's back yard, pushing her seven-year-old daughter Tabby on a pink swing set at a bar-b-que, he'd have asked you what you were high on. And probably asked for some.

Yet here he is, grinning like an idiot as Tabby squeals and demands he push her _higher_. Cas met Leslie a couple weeks ago at yoga. They apparently bonded over downward dog or whatever weird shit goes on there.

Across the yard, Sam's laughing his ass off at something Bill—Bob?—just said. Cas is seated at the wooden picnic table, regaling several women—Dean can't remember their names. Huh! Well, that's a first!—with tales of ancient history he _learned in college._ Dean seriously doubts any college teaches the shit Cas can remember, but nobody's questioned them yet.

Nobody's questioned them at all. About anything. No one batted an eye when Cas showed up with his _roommates_ in tow. No one seemed to care that Sam and Dean stayed unnaturally close to each other for the first half hour, and all they got when Dean pressed an experimental kiss to Sam's cheek was a collective _awww…you two are so cute!_ from the women, and pats on the back from several of the guys. Heh. Go Gay Pride.

A kid runs past the swing set, auburn curls bouncing.

"That's Lanie Patterson," Tabby tells him. "She's eight. She has a dog named Buster."

"Is that so?" Dean's not sure what it says about him that he thinks Tabby is the most interesting conversationalist here. The name _Lanie_ is vaguely familiar to him, but he can't place why.

"Uh huh. He's a terror. Like Max in the _Secret Life of Pets_."

"I haven't seen that one yet. Is it good?" What? He's asking for _Cas_. Cas likes Disney movies. Don't judge.

Tabby shrugs. "I guess so. I like Hotel Trans… Transul…"

"Transylvania?"

"Yeah! I like that one better!"

"You like monsters, huh?"

She looks back over her shoulder at him. "Only the nice ones."

"You're my kinda girl, Tabby."

"Lanie!"

Heat speeds up Dean's spine and every muscle in his body seizes up.

"Lanie!" A man—probably Lanie's dad—is standing by the grill, yelling for his kid.

Dean's vision dims and swims and when it clears he's not in the well-manicured backyard on an idyllic Saturday. He's in The Pit, standing at The Rack. In front of him, strung up for punishment is a man named David. David, who keeps begging Dean for mercy. David, who keeps screaming for his wife. For Lanie.

Dean shakes his head, folds his arms across his chest and presses his now balled up fists against his sides. Sam. He needs to find Sam. Now.

"Lanie!"

David's voice keeps bulldozing through his skull, setting his nerves on fire. Cold sweat trickles down his back and his steps falter. Not here. Not here. Jesus Christ, _please_ not here. A figure looms in front of him and just as he's about to knock them aside, two strong, wide hands land on his shoulders.

"Dean?" Sam's voice cuts through the pain, silences David with one word.

"I need to go." He grits the words out, exhausted by the effort.

Sam nods and slips his arm around Dean's waist. "I'm right here."

Dean leans into him, into the long, lean line of comfort his little brother provides.

"I'm right here." Sam says it again as he leads Dean to the Impala.

"Cas…" Dean doesn’t quite know what he's trying to say, but he dimly remembers they came here with the ex-angel.

"I texted him. He's fine. C'mon." Sam opens the passenger door and pushes Dean down into the seat.

The familiar smell of leather and gunpowder and _home_ surrounds him. It's easier to breathe in here.

Sam slides into the drivers' side and Baby rumbles to life. He reaches over and takes Dean's hand. "I'm right here."

Dean holds onto the contact for all he's worth. He's barely aware of the drive and suddenly they're pulling into the Bunker garage. Sam's out of the car in a flash.

Dean feels the loss of contact like a knife in his gut. David's voice starts again as a whisper but soon it's a cacophony, joined by all the other souls he punished. The things he did crawl under his skin, slicing and dicing, taking him apart piece by piece, pulling him under, down into the blackness that is his soul. He's evil. Wretched. Broken. Tainted. Unloveable. Undeserving of any—

The car door opens and Dean surges to his feet in a last ditch attempt to escape the voices in his head. He reaches out blindly and Sam is there, catches him and pulls him close. Dean snakes his arms around Sam's neck and holds on like the drowning man he is.

"I'm right here. I'm right here." Sam says it over and over.

Dean shakes and tries to hold back the sobs that barrel up from his throat. Sam's arms are solid as steel around him, those big, warm hands a barrier against the dark and a refuge from it.

"I'm right here."

Dean presses his nose into Sam's neck and breathes in deep—the scent of fancy shampoo and sweat and _Sam_ blocks out everything else. He keeps breathing it in, drags in gulp after gulp down into his lungs.

Maybe it takes hours—he doesn’t know. But the shaking finally stops and his muscles start to relax. He sags against Sam's unwavering form.

Sam presses a kiss to his hair and hums a soft noise.

Dean leans back a little, lets go of Sam to wipe his eyes. "Fuck."

Sam doesn't ask if he's okay, and Dean can't explain how grateful he is for that. "Guess we should go get Cas."

"He's fine." Sam bends and kisses the corner of Dean's mouth.

Dean clears his throat and takes a deep breath. "You get anything to eat back there?"

"Nope."

"You hungry?"

"I could eat." Sam doesn’t press him. They'll talk about it later, in bed, in the dark, where Dean can hide from the memories, pretend he doesn't recall all the other names, and beg his baby brother to fuck the pain away.

"'Kay. I'll fix us something and then we can go grab Cas. Wanna help me in the kitchen?"

Sam smiles softly. "Always."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)


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